My brother Totila--thou surely knowest him?--lay in
the harbour of Ancona with two little ships. Thy friend Pomponius had
had for some days such an insolent expression of countenance, and had
let fall such bragging words, that it struck even my unsuspicious
brother. One morning Pomponius suddenly disappeared from the harbour
with his three triremes. Totila smelt a rat, spread all sail, pursued
him, overtook him off Pisaurum, stopped him, went on board with me and
a few others, and asked him whither he would be going."

"He had no right to do so. Pomponius will have given him no answer."

"He did so, for all that, most excellent Cethegus! When he saw that we
were only ten upon his ship, he laughed, and cried, 'Whither sail I? To
Ravenna, thou downy-beard, to save the Queen from your claws, and take
her to. Rome!' And he therewith made a sign to his crew. But we, too,
threw our shields before us, and--hurrah! how the swords flew from the
sheaths! It was hard work--ten to forty! But happily it did not last
long. Our comrades in the nearest ship heard the iron rattle, and were
quickly alongside with their boats, and climbed the bulwarks like cats.
Now we had the upper hand; but the Navarchus--to give the devil his
due!--would not yield; fought like to madman, and pierced my brother's
arm through his shield, so that the blood spouted. But then my brother
got into a rage too, and ran his spear through the other's body, so
that he fell like an ox. 'Greet the Prefect,' he said, as he lay dying,
'give him my sword, his gift, back again, and tell him that no one can
cheat Death, else I had kept my word!' I swore to him that I would
confirm his words. He was a brave man. Here is the sword."

Cethegus took it in silence.

"The ships yielded, and my brother took them back to Ancona. But I
sailed here with the swiftest, and met the three Balthes in the
harbour, just at the right moment."

A pause ensued, during which Cethegus and Amalaswintha bitterly
contemplated their desperate position. Cethegus had consented to
everything in the sure hope of flight, which was now frustrated. His
well-considered plan was balked; balked by Totila; and hatred of this
name entered deeply into the Prefect's soul. His grim reflections were
interrupted by the voice of Thulun, asking:

"Well, Amalaswintha, wilt thou sign? or shall we call upon the Goths to
choose a King?"

At these words Cethegus quickly recovered himself. He took the tablets
from the hand of the Duke and handed them to the Queen.

"It is necessary, O Queen," he said in a low voice; "you have no
choice."

Cassiodorus gave her the stylus, she wrote her name and Thulun received
the tablets.

"'Tis well," said he; "we go to announce to the Goths that their
kingdom is saved. Thou, Cassiodorus, accompany us to bear witness that
all has been done without violence."

At a sign from Amalaswintha the senator obeyed, and followed the Gothic
leaders to the Forum before the palace.

When the Queen found herself alone with Cethegus, she started from her
seat. She could no longer restrain her tears. She passionately struck
her forehead. Her pride was terribly humbled. She felt the shame of
this hour more deeply than the loss of husband, father, or even of her
son.

"Not all, Queen, only a plan. I beg you to keep me in kindly
remembrance," he added coldly. "I go to Rome."

"What? you will leave me at this moment? You, you have made me give all
these promises, which rob me of my throne, and now you forsake me! Oh!
it were better that I had resisted, I should then have remained indeed
a Queen, even if they had set the crown upon the head of that rebel
Duke!"

"Certainly," thought Cethegus, "better for you, worse for me. No, no
hero shall ever again wear this Gothic crown." He had quickly seen that
Amalaswintha could no longer serve him, and just as quickly he gave her
up. He was already thinking of a new tool for his plans. Yet he decided
to disclose to her a portion of his thoughts, in order that she might
not act upon her own account, contradict her promises, and thereby
cause the crown to obvert to Thulun. "I go, O Queen," he said; "but I
do not therefore forsake you. Here I can no longer serve you. They have
banished me from your side, and will guard you as jealously as a lover
his mistress."

"But what shall I do with these promises? what with the three dukes?"

"Wait, and, at present, submit. And as to the three dukes," he added
hesitatingly, "they go to the wars--perhaps they will never return."

"Perhaps!" sighed the Queen. "Of what use is a 'perhaps?'"

Cethegus came close to her.

"As soon as you wish it--they _shall_ never return."

The woman trembled:

"Murder? Terrible man, of what are you thinking?"

"Of what is necessary. Murder is a wrong expression. It is
self-defence. Or a punishment. If you had now the power, you would have
a perfect right to kill them. They are rebels. They force your royal
will. They kill your Navarchus; they deserve death."

"And they _shall_ die," whispered Amalaswintha to herself, clenching
her fist; "they shall not live, these brutal men, who force a Queen to
do their behest. You are right--they shall die!"

"They must die--they and," he added in a tone of intense hatred,
"and--the young hero!"

"Wherefore Totila? He is the handsomest and most valiant youth in the
nation!"

"He dies!" growled Cethegus. "Oh that he would die ten times over!" And
such bitter hatred flamed from his eyes, that, suddenly seen in a man
of such a cold nature, it both startled and terrified Amalaswintha.

"I shall send you from Rome," he continued rapidly in a low tone,
"three trusty men, Isaurian mercenaries. These you will send after the
three Balthes, as soon as they have reached their several camps. You
understand that _you_, the Queen, send them; for they are executioners,
no murderers. The three dukes must fall on the same day--I myself will
care for handsome Totila--the bold stroke will alarm the whole nation.
During the first consternation of the Goths I will hurry here from
Rome, with troops, to your aid. Farewell."

He departed, and left alone the helpless woman, upon whose ear now
broke the shouts of the assembled multitude from the Forum in front of
the palace, extolling the success of their leaders and the submission
of Amalaswintha.

She felt quite forsaken. She suspected that the last promise of the
Prefect was little more than an empty word of comfort to palliate his
departure. Overcome by sorrow, she rested her cheek upon her beautiful
hand, and was lost for some time in futile meditations.

Suddenly the curtain at the entrance rustled. An officer of the palace
stood before her.

"Ambassadors from Byzantium desire an audience. Justinus is dead. His
nephew Justinianus is Emperor. He tenders a brotherly greeting and his
friendship."

"Justinianus!" This name penetrated the very soul of the unhappy
woman. She saw herself robbed of her son, thwarted by her people,
forsaken by Cethegus. In her sad musings she had been seeking in vain
for help and support, and, with a sigh of relief, she again repeated,
"Justinianus--Byzantium!"

CHAPTER IV.

In the woods of Fiesole, a modern wanderer coming from Florence will
find to the right of the high-road the ruins of an extensive villa-like
edifice. Ivy, saxifrage and wild roses vie with each other in
concealing the ruins. For centuries the peasants in the neighbouring
villages have carried away stones from this place in order to dam up
the earth of their vineyards on the slopes of the hills. But even yet
the remains clearly show where once stood the colonnade before the
house, where the central hall, and where the wall of the court.

Weeds grow luxuriantly in the meadows where once lay in shining order
the beautiful gardens; nothing has been left of them except the wide
marble basin of a long dried-up fountain, in whose pebble-filled
runnels the lizards now sun themselves.

But in the days of our story the place looked very different. "The
Villa of Męcenas at Fęsulę," as the building, probably with little or
no reason, was called at that time, was inhabited by happy people; the
house ordered by a woman's careful hand; the garden enlivened by
childhood's bright laughter.

The climbing clematis was gracefully trained up the slender shafts of
the Corinthian columns in front of the house, and the cheerful vine
shaded the flat roof. The winding walks in the garden were strewed with
white sand, and in the outhouses dedicated to domestic uses reigned an
order and cleanliness which was never to be found in a household served
by Roman slaves alone.

It was sunset.

The men and maid servants were returning from the fields. The
heavily-laden hay-carts swung along, drawn by horses which were
evidently not of Italian breed. The shepherds were driving goats and
sheep home from the hills, accompanied by large dogs, which scampered
on in front, barking joyously.

Close before the yard gate, a couple of Roman slaves, with shrill
voices and mad gestures, were urging on the panting horses of a cruelly
over-laden wagon, not with whips, but with sticks, the iron points of
which they stuck again and again into the same sore place upon the poor
animals' hides. In spite of this, no advance was made, for a large
stone lay just in front of the left fore-wheel of the wagon, which the
angry and impatient drivers did not notice.

"Forwards, beast! and son of a beast!" screamed one of them to the
struggling horse; "forwards, thou Gothic sluggard!" Another stab with
the iron point, a renewed and desperate pull; but the wheel did not go
over the stone, and the tortured animal fell on its knees, threatening
to